The pods I plant now are engorged with the ruby red heirloom seeds of dissent and shielded by razor-sharp, scaled skin tattooed with my wedding vows. I nest these precious, embryonic totems here in this haunted forest where the Witches gather, their wombs swollen with a persistent hope for a better world and their eyes glowing with the same, black-mirror feminine ire that I used to sew my gown. They will be my guests tonight, these raging activist-priestesses who know the magick of the green-skinned muses and know it well, these change-agent Witch-Mothers who will soon birth a generation of babes charged to fight for their world while choking on the malignant, festering mouth cancers left them by their near-sighted grandfathers.
My ceremonial gardening marks the beginning of this commitment ritual, but its end will not come until these soft-souled, starving star-children, now so innocently swimming in womb-water, dine on the flourishing harvest of stone-fruit and conviction I sow tonight. May my words echo through their mothers’ stretch-marked skin and ignite a bone-deep purpose to ever-protect the lover I wed tonight, under a moon that mourns for a planet under siege by a particular, privileged politics of corrupt consumption and petty, pitiful narcissism.
These venom-fanged, wild ones are gathered here today to witness my marriage to my long-time and ever-loyal lover. Under these ancient oaks, I vow to love, honor, and cherish Her crystalline and over-mined bones, the polluted waters of Her blood, and the carved-up landscape of Her skin. I promise to use all the magick I have in store, all my words and all my will, to stand against those who melt through what little fire-proof armor She has and leave Her to be burned at the stake. I vow to make good use of every resource gifted me to rally and rage against those who think we are more valuable than SHE. I am Bride to Earth, and the only death that shall part us is Hers.
For now, She has been raped but remains unruined, and She has yet to unleash the howling-wind-majesty of Her dark Goddess wrath. She has yet to show Her most-ancient sorcery, though I fear it will be too late once the golden doors are blown apart by righteous waves conjured by a fem-force no superior human signature could ever cage. Perhaps these yet-to-be-born babes will know to get to higher ground while my lover washes away the sins of ego-madness and bids the world to start anew, or perhaps She casts us all out as an ill-fated virus to which She is now immune.
I am bleeding on the ground now to consummate this blessed union, and I can hear ethereal voices of future generations screaming for salvation. This ritual’s audience has grown, and I can see the faces of burned women standing amongst the Witch-Mothers and vibrating with the same pulse-beat that resonates from the core of my wide-hipped bride. We are but infinitesimal cells in Her slow-throbbing heart, but we are hardly helpless.
With this blood, I thee wed. I am painting my face with worm-riddled loam and tracing pentagrams onto bark. I am wail-praying to everyone I know to not give up and head for the wilderness where no one can hear you weep. Stay and rage for my bride who does not care to speak a language that has too few words for peace but thousands for profit. Stay and rage for the hunted Witch that is our planet, and stay and rage for the wild ones still bound by womb-walls who have no choice but to be born into a world left in ruins by soulless, diseased beasts so taken by the sound of their own voices they cannot hear the tearful pleas and begging screams sent back in time from their great-grandchildren.